


The Good Burn

by anomieow



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Anal Sex, BDSM, Doctor/Patient, Gags, M/M, Medical Kink, Rough Oral Sex, Tenderness, Top!Goodsir, assumed consent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-28
Updated: 2021-02-28
Packaged: 2021-03-12 03:35:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,962
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29753463
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anomieow/pseuds/anomieow
Relationships: Henry Foster Collins/Harry D. S. Goodsir
Comments: 10
Kudos: 25





	The Good Burn

Collins takes an uneasy seat on one of the reception chairs that line the wall—cheap things with spindly legs, upholstered sage, mauve, the subdued gray one only sees in waiting rooms. At his knees, a table across which outdated magazines have been fanned. _Good Housekeeping. People. National Geographic._ This he picks up and thumbs idly through, recalling with vague pleasure that eye-catching saffron border that lined the shelves in his grandfather’s attic. He flips past photos of bears, submersibles thronged by fish, the intricate and lush geometry of Machu Picchu crowned by ragged cloud. But none of it interests him. His palms sweat and he stretches restlessly in the chair, which feels too small. Like his skin feels too small, like his breath feels too shallow and his brow too hot, and he won’t feel cool and loose again until the doctor sees him. 

Impatient as he is, he’s startled when the door opens and the doctor himself stands there. He’s a small man in his late thirties, with coppery-green eyes and deft, delicately-formed hands. His thick curls are always right on the edge of needing cut, but Collins likes the touch of unruliness they impart. The doctor explains, with his characteristic apologetic lilt, that it being so late, his nurse has already gone home for the evening. 

“I’m grateful you could fit me in, doctor,” Collins says as he follows him down the dim hallway into an equally dim exam room. It’s on the second floor of an older building, the doctor’s office is. The exam rooms are spacious, with wood-paneled walls and high ceilings. Half-drawn blinds offer a glimpse of the silvery-blue evening clouds and a streetlight casts a watery orange glow across the doctor’s desk before he shuts the blinds completely. The only light left is the little narrow pool cast by his desk lamp—the old-fashioned kind with a pull-chain and rich green half-capsule glass shade. Books and esoteric souvenirs line the wall opposite the heavy mahogany desk, and in the middle of the room the exam table rises like some ancient ritualistic dais. Leaning against the wall between the door and a tall cabinet is a sheeted full-length mirror. There are, Collins had noted on his very first visit, no photos in this place, no smiling spouse and children. And no ring on the doctor’s finger.

The doctor inclines his head with a small smile—more a creasing of the flesh around the eyes than anything involving the mouth—and gestures toward the exam table. The paper crinkles noisily beneath him as he sits down. He wonders if, like last time, he’ll be made to wear one of those little threadbare, mint-green robes. Thirty-six years old and he still doesn’t know front from back on those things. 

“I have you down for a physical?” The doctor asks. His tone is solicitous, yes, but not intimately so: there’s a slightly chilly reticence to him, ready to harden into disapproval or disdain at a moment’s notice. 

Collins nods, barely daring to raise his gaze, for the doctor’s waist is right there, his belly, which, though he’s a slender man, has lovely softness to it. He wants to press his face into that softness, wants to lower his nose and mouth to the heat between his legs, snuffle in his scent, voracious as a dog for it. He wonders how he’d be made to answer for such a transgression, but he won’t try it. He is _the picture of docility_ , the doctor had said once, and he’s proud of that praise. He carries it with him like a lucky pocket-knife and lives to prove it truthful at every opportunity the doctor gives him. 

“All right,” the doctor says softly. “Strip please.” 

Collins’ hands tremble on the lapels of his wool peacoat. He’s lived in his coat all winter, huddled down into it, trying to make himself small. Not that he’ll ever be that. He’s 6’2” and broad-shouldered, muscular, with a heavy head and wide hands callused and grease-creased from his work as a mechanic. He scrubs his hands, of course, before he comes, knowing how much the doctor detests dirtiness. Now, taking his coat and shirt off, he’s acutely aware of how much larger he is than the doctor, who leans back now on locked arms against his desk and watches him in a sharp, assessing way. 

“Completely?” He asks, his thumbs on the waistband of his black boxer briefs. Not that it makes a difference: the state of what they hide is evident, roused by the doctor’s scrutiny. 

The doctor inclines his head once, an understated assent. When he’s completely stripped and his clothes folded neatly in the chair, the doctor circles him. He feels his heavy gaze; he hears something in his breath shift. Then his fingertips find his wrist: he’s taking his pulse. As he does, he shifts closer.

“You like this,” he says in a soft and pleasant voice. “Displaying yourself like this—ah, there goes your heart. Am I right, then, Mr. Collins? You’d like to be shown about, like a prize draft horse? Pin a blue ribbon to that big broad chest of yours. Best in show. Oh, if you could feel your heart pounding. Now I am going to check your teeth, all right?” He lets go of his wrist and brings his fingers up to his mouth, pushing his lips up from his teeth. He can feel his gloved fingers expertly patting about his gums, can taste the soft bitterness of the latex—a bit like scorched rubber, a bit like soap. He recalls, suddenly, having his mouth washed out as a boy for swearing, his father’s fingers (not nearly so clean, engine grease beneath the nails) butting up against the roof of his mouth as he rubbed the sliver of soap over his tongue. Now, the doctor’s fingers in his mouth offer the same kind of reassurance to him, pressing and prodding him in the same way back into his place in the order of things. 

“Even your teeth are perfect. Fetch a pretty penny at any auction, you would— _oh._ You like that too? Just felt that beast of yours twitch against my thigh. Have strange men file past, gawping and groping… Marveling at your strength.” As he speaks he backs Collins up against the exam table and slides his trousered hip in between his thighs. “Or a show dog. Leash you and run you round a ring. Would you like that? I can see you would. My prize mastiff.” He presses his fingers against Collins’ tongue and slides them back into his mouth until he gags on them. Then, as though to apologize, he closes his lips around them and gives them a neat, long suck, locking eyes with the doctor as he does so. 

“Goodness,” the doctor breathes, watching him closely. “You can’t help but show off, can you? But that was rather a liberty. A mark of slack discipline.” He drags his fingers down over his chest and then, sudden and sharp and coordinated with an emphatic shove of his hipbone against his balls, twists both his nipples between thumb and fore-knuckle. It’s a shuddery, wonderful kind of hurt, and he sags into it with a raw whine.

“That was meant to chastise,” the doctor says stiffly. “But I see—” his face contracts into a small frown as he pulls back from Collins to examine a little gleaming of fluid on the hem of his sweater vest. He sighs. “Well. You can’t help it, can you? Still—I’d rather nip this kind of thing in the bud.” 

Collins’ cheeks blaze. He only ever wants to please the doctor, though he does rather look forward to his punishment. The doctor turns his back on Collins, unlocks his desk drawer, and slides it open with a little squeak. “Here it is,” he grins, presenting Collins with gleaming contraption, two curved steel arms running parallel from a ratchet on one side. “A Jennings gag, it’s called. Named for its inventor, who debuted it in cleft palate surgery, I believe in 1914? It’s an ingenious thing! See, before this, gag ratchets were spring-loaded—tricky things, I imagine. But this is a turn ratchet—much safer.” 

Collins listens with a mix of trepidation and excitement. He has been gagged before, but never by this man and never by such a severe-looking instrument. But he loves its sleekness and soft shine; something about it feels ancient and sturdy. He feels himself nod. “It’s beautiful,” he says.

“Isn’t it?” The doctor says softly, then taps Collins’ lip. “Open up.” 

The gag stretches his lips deliciously. There’s a minim of give when he tests it, but it holds. The corners of his mouth are tugged burningly tight around the curves of its arms and his tongue rests slack in his jammed-open mouth.

“Oh, my—my goodness.” The doctor’s voice is hushed and pleased as he steps back. “You should see yourself.” A pause. “Would you like to see yourself?”

Collins nods and the doctor ushers him to the sheeted figure of the mirror. He can feel drool gathering in the pocket between his teeth and stretched lips, pooling in the floor of his cheeks, but can’t reach to lick it away as he examines his face from all angles. He—likes it. He likes the cold air drying and numbing his tongue, he likes the helpless, gaping grimace his mouth is shaped into. 

The doctor stands behind him, pressing up close to speak low into his ear. “Look at yourself, Mr. Collins. You look—magnificent, truly.” He feels the unmistakable press of the doctor’s stiffened length into the meat of his ass and catches his breath. He is careful with his prick, the doctor is; it never makes itself or its state known by accident. Everything about the doctor is so restrained that he is astonished too by the heaviness of his breath, the sleepy darkness of his eyes as he looks over his shoulder at him. “Imagine,” he continues softly, “if someone saw you in this state. Say, one of my colleagues. Say, Dr. Stanley. You know which one he is?”

Collins nods. Stanley is a tall, severe man, with thin fair hair and a heavy brow. Collins, who is faithful to his doctor as far as this kind of play goes, suddenly wants very much to be seen in this gag by Stanley, by anyone. Like a child with new, shining shoes. 

“He’d appreciate such a fine specimen,” the doctor continues. “Such brute strength paired with such docility.” From the pocket of his white coat he draws something out, and then Collins’ wrists are tugged together behind his back and leather cuffs slipped around them.

“A prize patient. Kneel, if you would, and let’s just—switch places here—good—now you can see how beautiful you look on your knees. Let’s test that gag reflex again, shall we?”

The doctor’s approach even to this is precise, intelligent. Collins strains time and time again to close his lips around his cock, as though with each pass he forgets he is restrained. They are positioned just so he can make out his own dim, muscled bulk in the mirror, leaning forward on his knees to take as much of the doctor into his mouth as is allowed. He loves seeing it: the doctor’s fingers curled tight in his hair, his slender body pressed up against him. Harder and harder the doctor jams himself into his mouth, his head gliding over his tongue and butting up against the back of his throat. He likes best when the doctor finds that spot that makes him gag and holds him at the edge of it, tears mixing with the drool on his chin. 

“Christ,” the doctor pants, “look how desperate you are. Look how much you want to suck my cock. It’s rather a good thing you can’t, really, for you’d have me done in no time. Paint your face. You love that, I know, and it’s pretty on you too. Imagine—oh, I’d love to see it—I’d love to show you about anointed so. Would you like that? Let everyone see what a prize slut you are. 

Collins nods, feeling the head of his cock bob on his tongue as he does so. He sucks in a breath and the air is chill over his molars. He’d love it. He imagines the doctor’s colleagues, Stanley and a Scotsman with a charming, level grin—he wants to taste their cocks too; he wants them to pretty up his face: praise for his strength and sweetness. 

“Please,” he tries to say, but it comes out as a garbled pleading sound, desperate and subhuman. 

“Yes. Something to think about.” Here he withdraws his prick from his mouth, and Collins feels his mouth’s sudden emptiness almost like a twinge of pain. Or maybe it _is_ pain, stretched tight as his lips are. 

“Up,” the doctor orders softly, stepping back as Collins delicately rocks from his haunches to his knees to his feet. Then he guides him to the exam table and gentles him down onto his chest so his weight’s tipped into his sternum. He catches his breath as the doctor nudges his thighs apart and then steps back—he hears the soft scuff of his Oxford shoes against the rug—to admire him. Then he flips on the light above the exam table, a scalding white light under which nothing can hide, and hums appreciatively at what he sees.

“I suppose you hoped I’d forgotten this part,” he muses, slipping on a new pair of gloves and spilling lubricant onto his palm. They are positioned just so he can see the edge of it all in the mirror out of the corner of his eye, his ass and the doctor’s slender form behind him, his head lowered in rapt concentration as he presses one gloved finger against his entrance. With his other he strokes his hip—his flank—with absent-minded fondness. 

“There you are,” he breathes softly. “Just relax for me like the good brave thing you are. This shouldn’t hurt.”

And it doesn’t. The doctor is exquisitely adept with his fingers, delving and pressing with one hand and while with the other he rhythmically strokes the small of his back until at last he’s able to work three fingers in, crook them just right, and— _ah._ He’s grateful for the emptiness of the old building as he cries out, his voice warped around the gag, and tries to buck up against the doctor’s hand. For he’s found his prostate and is stroking it energetically, restlessly, until the sensation so overwhelms him he’s nearly nauseous with it. He can make him come this way alone, shuddering it out in a paroxysm of intense sensation—a terrible and incisive bliss. But tonight is a night for crossing new boundaries together.

Once the doctor is able to move three fingers about easily he pulls them out and walks around to the front of him. Gazing down at him, he asks, “is this all right?”

Collins nods.

“Would you like to keep the gag in?”

He nods again, and the doctor strokes his cheek. “Good,” he says softly, “good.”

Then he’s behind Collins again, fingers of one hand curled into the flesh of his hip and the other angling the head of his cock against Collins’ entrance. A little hiss as he presses in.

“I knew it,” he sighs. “I knew you’d fit perfectly. You feel—it’s divine, Mr. Collins. It feels—it’s fucking indescribable.

The curse word zips like a shiver up Collins’ spine and punches a gasp from his open mouth. The doctor fucks in cadence with his own deepening breath, shoving a little harder with each stroke, until he’s got Collins pressed flat against the exam table and Collins’ thighs are quaking with the effort. It’s a good burn, just like the good burn where his lips are stretched taut by the gag and in his shoulders where they’re tugged, inward and crooked, by the clasp of the leather cuffs. The good burn of the doctor inside of him. It’s as though their bodies sing out to one another in a rhythm their civilized minds could not begin to grasp, and, through this feral animal rhythm, they nurture one another. Collins can even feel that the doctor is about to come and knows exactly how to angle himself. In the mirror he watches the stuttering of his rhythm, the arching of his muscular back and the quiet slope of his silver-pelted belly. His eyes wide with wonder on his body, brow knit and little rising gasps sailing from his lips.

“Perfect,” he gasps almost silently. “Perfect.” 

Suddenly—unexpectedly—the doctor’s hand is on Collins’ dick, fumbling toward rhythm as he rides his own orgasm down. “I want you to come for me, pet,” he says softly. “Come on my cock.”

This soft demand is all it takes and when he’s done he feels boneless and infinitely heavy. 

Minutes later, he’s aware of the doctor up and moving about.

“We had better go, Mr. Collins. Let’s get that thing out of your mouth.” He’s quiet as he twists the ratchet and jimmies the gag free. Instantly a cold, thudding pain fills his jaw as he lets his mouth softly close. 

“Are you all right?” The doctor asks, stroking his jaw with his fingertips. Their scene is over—the touch is an organic one, hesitantly offered, and Collins grins into it, turning his head so his lips touch the doctor’s fingertips.

“What are you doing after this, doctor?” He asks.

“Nothing,” he replies. “And I wish you’d call me Harry.”


End file.
